When Charles came to, he was looking up into the face of an angel.

Most of her features were blurry, but he could make out the lovely curve of her jaw, a pair of pink lips, and a cascade of auburn hair.

"Charles," the angel said, in a musical voice that sounded far away, as if he were underwater. "Charles."

He tried to say something eloquent, something witty to impress her, but all that came out of his mouth was a half-strangled gargle.

While he cursed himself silently, she seemed pleased. She looked over her shoulder. "James," she said, her voice now a little clearer, "I think he's coming to!"

James, Charles thought. That's my brother's name... pity he's dead too...

Suddenly, his brother's face materialized in front of him: brows furrowed with worry, blue eyes scanning his face. But what made Charles' heart skip with glee was what he held in his hands: a bowl.

"You may sou!" Charles slurred, a botched version of "You made soup!" His tongue didn't seem to work properly in Heaven; he'd have to put in a formal complaint.

"'Fraid not," James said, spooning some liquid into Charles' mouth.

Charles had been hoping for James' spring medley, but it became immediately apparent that this wasn't the case. The taste was so incredibly foul that it somehow rallied all of Charles' strength, giving him the energy to spit it out onto his brother's face.

James' jaw dropped. The green puree dripped off his chin. "Rude," he muttered.

The angel giggled in the background. Charles looked to her and realized, finally, that he wasn't dead. He was back home, in his bedroom. James was sitting on the edge of the bed, wiping his face with a handkerchief and looking miffed. And the angel wasn't an angel at all; it was his fiancée Cecilia.

"Wha—" Charles said, slowly regaining use of his tongue. "What happened?"

"We were hoping you'd be able to answer that," Cecilia said, drawing closer. Now that his eyes were focusing better, he could see the hint of concern that marred her features. "Tom, the bartender at The Rusty Nail, said you wanted to use his back room. That you had a girl with you."

Charles' memories came back in a rush: the homeless girl, the cloaked figures, the pentagram of blood and the small child lying within it... He felt nauseous, suddenly, and it had nothing to do with the potion James had tried to feed him. "Yes. And then she clocked me," he said, feeling the tenderness on his scalp.

"Right," James said, setting down the handkerchief. "Tom found you when the girl ran out of the bar in a hurry. He recruited a few guys to carry you back here."

"And when you were late for dessert," Cecilia added, "I came over to see if you'd forgotten. Only when I arrived, I found James in a tizzy and you completely unconscious. What were you doing with that girl?"

There was no judgment in her voice, no insinuation that he had done something indecent. It was something he appreciated about Cecilia. And yet, in that moment, Charles knew he could not tell her the truth about what he had seen. While the memory itself had been dark enough, it was the feelings that accompanied it that made him hold his tongue. When the memory had engulfed him, he had felt everything as if he had been there in that moment: the fear, the horror, the absolute wrongness of everything going on around him. And the fact that this girl had been so desperate to have him extract it meant that owning this memory was extremely dangerous. He couldn't drag his fiancée into this mess, not without him understanding more about what was going on.

"Did they save the memory?" Charles asked.

James frowned, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a vial with a red pulsating glow. "This one?"

Charles stared at the vial. "Yes, that one."

Cecilia continued to look confused. "This all happened because you were trying to get a memory from a homeless girl? Honey, you know those things won't fetch any money."

"I know, I know," Charles said, deciding to feed into Cecilia's misinterpretation. "I just felt bad because... you know how I feel about the homeless."

Cecilia smiled kindly and stroked his hand. "Your heart is too big, you know that."

"Yeah," he mumbled. "Next time I'll just give her a donation instead."

"So," James said, twisting the vial between his thumbs. "Should I just... toss this then?"

"No!" Charles said. Then, hesitating, lied, "I didn't get a great look at it before she attacked me. It could have something valuable—perhaps a thieving adventure I could sell? You know how some people like those. I should at least look at it, see if I can make something about this night worthwhile." He laughed, trying to convince him of his joke, but it sounded hollow to his ears.

James shrugged. "Okay. I'll go put it in your study, then. Be right back."

As soon as he had left the room, Cecilia smiled. "Finally, he's gone," she said, leaning in close and pressing her heavenly lips to Charles'. He loved the feel of her flesh, and the smell of her rose water perfume. When she pulled away, her fingers stroked his dark curls, hesitating over the bandage James had placed on his temple.

"She really did a number on you," she commented. "James put at least four different salves under that bandage. And he's insisting that you drink that potion. He says it'll give you more strength and speed up the healing process."

Charles rolled his eyes. "Have you ever drunk a healing potion, Ce? They're almost as bad as truth potions. I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy."

She laughed, her voice a tinkle of high bells, and she took the bowl into her lap. She scooped up another spoonful and pressed it to his lips. "Open up."

"Mmm mmh," Charles said, keeping his lips pressed together, like a child refusing to eat his broccoli.

She smiled, leaned in, and gave him the softest kiss on his jaw. The hairs on the back of his neck shivered delightfully at her touch.

"You win," he murmured, opening his mouth. The taste made him gag, but he managed to swallow it this time.

James walked back in that precise moment. "Cecilia," he said, clapping his hands together, "I swear, I don't know how you do it. And your face is completely free of spit! Impressive!"

She winked. "I have my ways."

"Cecilia," Charles said, taking the spoon from her and taking another bite, despite the fact that every part of his gastrointestinal tract begged him not to. "Is Foote waiting with the carriage outside?" he asked, referring to the Monroe family's coachman. "Why don't you head home with him? It's late. I'm feeling much better. I'm sure all I need is a good night's rest to put this all behind us. James and I can manage from here."

"Are you sure?"

Charles nodded.

"Okay." She leaned in, gave him one final kiss on the forehead, and gathered her skirts. "Let's reschedule dessert. How does Friday sound?"

"Absolutely lovely."

She waved, a little waggle of her fingers, and then she was gone.

James sat back down on the bed. "You know, I wish you hadn't sent her home. I could have used her help. You're enough of a handful when you haven't been beaten within an inch of your life."

"James," Charles said, struggling to sit up. "We have a problem."

"Yes, we do. You won't bloody let me doctor you! Now lie back down and drink that potion."

"Not that!" Charles said, batting his brother's arm away. "I wasn't completely honest before. About what happened with the girl in the pub."

James paused, a look of horror crossing his face. "Please tell me you didn't do something stupid. Cecilia—"

"Not that!" Charles said. "The reason I was at The Rusty Nail with her was because she spun me this whole sob story about how her mother was violently murdered in front of her, and she asked if I could take the memory away because she couldn't live with it."

James' eyes widened. "Wait—You can do that? Take a memory away?"

"Apparently," Charles said. "I've never tried before but apparently I thought this was the perfect night give it a shot. But that's not the important part. The crazy bit is that when I was trying to remove her memory, it engulfed me, and suddenly I was there, re-living what she had seen. But she had lied to me. She hadn't witnessed her mother being beaten to death. It looked like she stumbled upon some satanic ritual. There were people in cloaks, and blood on the floor, and... and a child about to be sacrificed."

Charles shook his head, ridding himself of the thought. "It's clear that she saw something she wasn't supposed to see. And now these cloaked people—whoever they are—are coming after her. I'm sure she wanted me to wipe her memory so they had no reason to kill her, but the problem is that now I have this memory." He raked his fingers through his curls. "What do you think these people are going to do when they finally capture her and realize she has no memory of the event? I'm the only person in town whose magicks deal with memory. It won't take them long to realize that and then come after me!"

James stood up and started pacing. "Charles, how the hell did you get involved with this? This is bad."

"I know," Charles said with a groan. "It's a mess. But I'm not going down without a fight."

James paused, looking at his brother. "You have a crazy idea, don't you?"

Charles nodded. "Something was off about the memory—at one point, it jumped ahead in time. Almost like it had been edited, or there were pieces of it I left behind. I need to find that girl and get her to talk. She probably knows a lot more than what I saw in that memory, and if we're to get through this, I need to know absolutely everything there is to know about this cult."

James eyed him warily. "Charles, I hate to say this, but you are in no state to be running off to find a girl who was able to knock you out with one blow. How are you planning on getting her to talk?"

"Don't worry," Charles said, forcing down another spoonful of potion. He was going to need his strength. "I have no plans on going alone. Tomorrow morning, I'm going to hire a little bit of help..."